


But It’s Christmas and He’s in Abery-s.t.w.y.t.h, or Something Like That

by AlwaysJohn



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Alone doesn't protect John, Angst with a Happy Ending, But it's Christmas, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-20
Updated: 2018-12-20
Packaged: 2019-09-23 03:21:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,596
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17072549
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AlwaysJohn/pseuds/AlwaysJohn
Summary: Sherlock is away on a case, and John is grumpy and lonely without his consulting detective. 'Tis a Christmas love story, so you know all will be well at the end.





	But It’s Christmas and He’s in Abery-s.t.w.y.t.h, or Something Like That

**Author's Note:**

> However you celebrate, or not, I'm sending wishes for a peaceful holiday season and a happy and healthy New Year.-AJ

Molly looked up from her paperwork as he entered, surprise and delight brightening her previous serious expression. 

“John? What are you doing here on Christmas Eve...oh dear.”

He smiled, though it hurt him to do so, but it wasn’t fair to tread on Molly’s cheerfulness. 

“Hi, Molly. I just stopped in to wish you a happy Christmas.”

Molly narrowed her eyes, studying him, although not with the intensity he was used to.

“You look sad, John. Oh. Is Sherlock away?”

“Am I that transparent?” he said, biting back his angry tone. “Sorry. And yes, he’s away and not due back until after Christmas.” His matter-of-fact addendum wasn’t much better.

“You’re transparent to your friends who care about you. I thought you were going to have a quiet Christmas this year. Just the two of you.”

“That was the plan.”

“A case, then?“

“Yeah.”

“A ten?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sorry. Where is he?” 

“Abery-s.t.w.y.t.h, or something like that.” Even Googling it hadn’t helped him pronounce it.

“By the sound of it, it must be in Wales.”

“It is and Sherlock and Mycroft are probably the only two geniuses in England who can say it.” John huffed disgust at himself, covering his face with his hands. “I hate that I’m so grumpy and needy-” he said through his fingers.

“John, it’s all right,” she consoled, resting a hand on his forearm.

He lifted his head at her touch. “But it’s Christmas, Molly. I was so happy that the day was going to be just us. Now it’s just empty.” 

“You love him and you miss him. There’s nothing wrong with that, John. I’m sure he misses you, too.”

“Mrs. Hudson scolded me because I wanted to take down all the decorations. It wasn’t Christmas anymore if he wasn’t here.”

“Oh. Did you?” 

John grimaced as thoughts of that long ago darkness marched through his head. Even after all the time passed, it was still there, the pain and sorrow lurking in the deepest shadows of his mind. Maybe it would forever follow him.

“John, don’t think about that bad time. Did you take the decorations down?”

“No. I couldn’t after she shouted at me.”

“John. you’re welcome-” She glanced at her phone when a text alert sounded. 

John wished it had been a text for him, from Sherlock. Pathetic, that’s what he was.

“No, Molly. Thank you, but no. I’d just be...no. Anyway, I have another stop to make and then I promised to help Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner get off on their trip.”

“Oh, that was nice. I’m sure they’ll have a good time.”

“Yeah, it was our gift to them so that we’d have the building to ourselves.”

Molly hugged him tight, but her comfort only made his chest hurt and his eyes burn. He knew his effort to hide the tears in his eyes was not lost on Molly when she rested her small hand on his cheek. He averted his gaze over her shoulder to a point on the wall.

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“No. I’m sorry...I didn’t mean to spoil your..I have to go,” he said, pulling away before he made an arse of himself.

“John-”

The door closed on whatever it was Molly said.

So lost and alone that he couldn’t find the energy to stop to see anyone else, John stood on the pavement outside Barts and sent texts to Greg, and Mike and with a heavy sigh and more than a moment of irritation, to Mycroft, whose only response was a terse “and you as well, Dr. Watson.” 

A cab pulled up as he stood at the kerb, but he waved it on. It was cold, despite the sun struggling to punch a hole in the gray sky, but at least ‘it was not precipitating,’ he heard Sherlock say in his head. Debating with himself on the merits of taking the tube, John opted out and walked.

An hour later, he pushed open the black door just as Mrs. Hudson and Mrs. Turner exited 221A, their luggage in tow. He loaded their bags into the boot, hugged each of them and after pressing extra notes into Mrs. Hudson’s hand for a porter to help them when they arrived at Heathrow, closed the door when they were safely aboard.

When Mrs. Hudson lowered the window and beckoned to him, John leaned close. She patted his hand, squeezing it gently. 

He stood at the kerb staring at the cab until it disappeared from sight. With a heavy sigh and dread weighing on his shoulders, John stepped inside. The silence and loneliness descended upon him like a shroud, raising the hair at his nape. He secured the door and climbed the seventeen stairs.

The flat door stood ajar and for a moment John thought Sherlock had returned early. Upon entering, although the flat was adorned with an array of fairy lights, more than he had originally placed thanks to Mrs. Hudson and possibly Mrs. Turner, the sitting room was empty of the one person who added colour to his once gray and hopeless existence. At that moment, Sherlock seemed a world away. 

Pottering round the flat in a doomed-from-the-start attempt at tidying didn’t hurry the time along. He gave up before an hour was gone. He arranged and rearranged the ornaments on the small tree in the window behind Sherlock’s chair. 

He gave up on an article in his most recent medical journal after he’d read the same paragraph a half-dozen times without retaining a single word. He peered out the window, stared at the carpet, straightened picture frames, did the washing up in the kitchen and checked the fridge for dinner fixings, realising too late that he’d not eaten lunch. No worry there, he wasn’t particularly hungry.

Boredom was not something he’d experienced very often. Not with Sherlock around. John didn’t like the feeling very much; he momentarily thought about shooting the wall. Allowing a bit of empathy to take route in his chest for Sherlock’s aversion to a lack of case busyness only made him miss the old sod even more.

He showered, shaved and brushed his teeth, then realised it was only half-five, exchanged his clothes for pyjamas, slippers and one of Sherlock’s dressing gowns, even though he had to be careful not to trip himself. John tried every way he knew to lift his morose spirits, but nothing he did eased the emptiness in his chest. Pathetic was the word that came to mind.

"You’re a grown man," he reproached himself. “Oh, for god’s sake, he’s coming back...he’s not...dead.”

**

Dinner consisted of..not much. John picked at leftovers, and after the first bite, tossed everything in the bin. Finally settling for cheese on toast, tea and two biscuits from Sherlock’s hidden supply, it was enough to ward off the churning in his gut. 

When his text to Sherlock went unanswered, John forced down the fear that tried to take hold in his chest. Less than a minute later, his phone alerted him to an incoming text.

All is well, John. -MH

John shook his head as the fact he was monitored. Still.

Sod off, Mycroft. -JW

Very well.-MH

Telly was crap John didn’t want to see, so he built a fire in the grate. Accessing Christmas music on his laptop lasted just long enough to hear the beginning of ‘So This is Christmas,’ a John Lennon, Yoko Ono song that was a bit too melancholic for his present mood.

The silence of the flat descended thick and heavy once more. Was it the darkness that once pursued Sherlock with a vengeance? Had it sought him out while he was alone? Or perhaps he was too dependent on Sherlock? John decided that Sherlock handled their time apart far better than he did.

After placing another log on the fire, John curled himself into Sherlock’s chair, wondering how the lanky git managed to do the same. There was barely enough room for him. When his eyes filled, for the thousandth time, it seemed, he closed them, ignoring the tears that trailed down his cheeks. 

Alone could never protect him, he thought. Loneliness crept into every bone and sinew as it lured him against his will into sleep.

**

In full stealth mode, Sherlock climbed the stairs without a misstep or creak. Leaving his shoes on the landing, he stole whisper-soft on socked feet through the kitchen to drop his coat and scarf over the back of John’s chair. Retreating only long enough to lock the kitchen and main doors, he silently made his way to the bedroom. 

Deciding to shower and shave before waking John, he approached the wardrobe to retrieve clean clothes. Finding one door ajar, which John never would never do, he opened it, observing that nothing was obviously amiss. It was there, between his pyjama bottoms and well-worn t-shirt which were freshly laundered and folded with John’s obvious care, that he found a note written in Mrs. Hudson’s neat hand.

Sherlock,

John has had a dreadful time without you these last few days, and is in need of an abundance of love and care. 

I have secreted at the back of the wardrobe a little something for both of you. Have a happy Christmas and I will see you again in the new year.

Love to both of you.

Mrs. H

Sherlock dropped to his knees to carefully seek out Mrs. Hudson’s ‘little something.’ Far back in the corner, Sherlock’s fingers curled around something prickly, gently it lifting it into view. He grinned at the gaudy little Christmas tree, electrical cord dangling from its base, and knew at once that John would adore it. He set it on John’s nightstand, plugging it in behind, and for safekeeping, slipped the Mrs. Hudson’s note between the pages of a forensic journal that sat on a foot-high stack of well-read older issue on his side of the bed.

Fifteen minutes was all it took for Sherlock to complete his washing up. Now that he’d washed away the grime of his travelling, he looked forward to up close and personal time with his doctor.

So deeply asleep that Sherlock’s movement within the sitting room as he secured the firescreen and unplugged the tree and fairy lights did not disturb him. 

Moments later, a soft whimper alerted Sherlock to John’s discomfort. Approaching by only the soft light from the kitchen, Sherlock knelt in front of his chair.

The frown etched deep on John’s handsome face was the only clue needed for Sherlock deduce the content of his doctor’s dream. Rarely the war anymore, but another sorrow just as devastating, a sorrow that would forever live in the dark recesses of his mind, ready to rise up at any moment. A loss recovered, but no less painful. It was a reality of which they were both keenly aware.

“John,” Sherlock whispered against his ear, feathering a kiss there. 

Groggy with sleep, John reached out, winding his arms around Sherlock’s neck, his soft sigh melting Sherlock’s heart. John held fast, locking his legs around his waist when Sherlock easily lifted him with an arm around his chest and the other under his bum.

“Time for bed, little one.”

John nuzzled into that warm spot where neck and shoulder met, as Sherlock slowly strolled to the bedroom to lay him on the bed. When John held fast, Sherlock straddled him on elbows and knees, cupping his hands on both sides of his fair head until John released him. Once settled, facing each other, Sherlock pulled the duvet over them.

John’s sleepy gaze followed his own fingers as they danced across Sherlock’s mouth, as though, it seemed, he needed to learn him all over again. Sherlock’s heart paused for a beat or three as he saw John eyes well with tears, and when it returned to its normal rhythm, well, a bit faster, but that wasn’t a bad thing, he found John’s blue eyes gazing back at him, a single tear on his cheek.

“Hello,” Sherlock 

“How did you know I needed you?” John whisper-slurred on barely a breath.

Sherlock allowed a tiny smile, knowing it would draw John’s attention back to things more pleasant.

“I know you.” 

“Oh,” John whispered again, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment. 

“And Molly sent me a rather rude text telling me to get my arse home because you needed me.”

“Thank you, Moll..y. Sorry...I was so grumpy,” he said, as though speaking to Molly.

“Grumpy, John, were you grumpy? No, not you, not Doctor Sunshine.”

“ShuT-uP, Sherl...mmm,” John hummed against his mouth. “I was needy and pathetic and ugly because you weren’t here with me and I hated the thought of spending Christmas alone. I’m not you, I don’t do well with alone.”

“Grumpy on occasion, I adore you when you are needy, and pathetic is not a descriptive word that suits you.” Sherlock pulled John close, wrapping himself around his smaller body. “And ugly...I assure you that my observational skills shout otherwise.”

John smiled, just a bit, snuggling in tighter. “Is it Christmas yet?”

“Not yet.” 

“Soon?”

His effort to see the nightstand clock without disengaging their mouths was ill-advised. When he returned his eyes to their proper position, he experienced tiny flickers of dancing triangles around the periphery of his vision. 

He must have flinched at the momentary discomfort; John pulled back, his eyes wide and fully awake. 

“What’s wrong?”

“In my haste to look at the clock I must have hyper-extended my eye muscles,” he offered, twisting his mouth into a silly smirk.

John stared at him for several long seconds before he appeared to catch on. He giggled. “They’re called phosphenes,* Sherlock.”

“What are?”

“The stars in your eyes, as in the more-than-I-like times you’ve suffered a concussion.”

“Oh, good to know, John.” He smiled wickedly, kissing John again.

“Git.”

“Yours.”

“Yes, Christ help me.” 

“We have a new addition to our bedroom, John. On your nightstand.”

John turned his head, stared at the little tree for several moments. “Mrs. Hudson?”

“Yes.”

John cleared his throat as he turned to look at Sherlock. “That was nice of her.”

“Yes, it’s a bit garish.”

“It’s the thought, Sherlock, she knew I was sad and missing you.”

Sherlock stifled John’s yawn with another kiss.

“Is it Christmas yet?”

“Almost.”

“I’m knackered from missing you.”

With a hand on John’s ribs, Sherlock tugged him closer; John came to him willingly, once more circling his neck with this arms and nuzzling against his throat.

“Hm. Nice. For someone so..”

“Careful, John. It’s almost Christmas.”

“...angular..I like snuggling with you. You’re so warm and..um..snuggly?”

“Redundant, John, but acceptable.” It was pedestrian and beneath him, but Sherlock allowed himself a discrete yawn.

“Yawning is contagious, Sherlock,” John said around his own.

“Are we going to make it to Christmas?”

As if on cue, Big Ben sounded in the distance, announcing the arrival of Christmas.

“Did you know that the famous tower of Parliament is called Elizabeth Tower and Big Ben is actually the nickname of the bell within it?”

“Of course, you git, and the bell’s official name is the Great Bell.”

“Ah, well done, John.”

“Happy Christmas, Sherlock, my love.”

“Happy Christmas, my John.”

“Go on, give us a bit of canoodling.”

“Challenge accepted.”

Barely fifteen minutes into Christmas, John breathed soft and steady. Sherlock cradled him tenderly, closed his eyes and with a contented sigh, followed him.

**Author's Note:**

> *The stars and flashes you sometimes see are called "phosphenes," a visual occurrence characterized by seeing light without having light actually enter into the eye. The word "phosphene" comes from the Greek words phos (light) and phainein.
> 
> Or Ophthalmic Migraine, a term I discovered from researching ‘stars in your eyes’ for this story. It is what I experience, thankfully not often, although it did appear today. I always referred to it as ‘dancing neon triangles on the periphery of my vision.’ My optometrist chuckled when I related it to him, but he verified my description.
> 
> It's also called a migraine variant, in other words, the visual aura without the headache.
> 
> I learn something new every day.


End file.
